


It's All Business

by MnM_ov_doom



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Dismas thinks he's Tinder, M/M, Mentions of self-harm, Requested, Reynauld is an awesome older brother, behold the BDSM (and the fluff), modern AU where the religious characters are siblings, the Bounty Hunter has trouble with feelings, the Flagellant appears to be problematic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-02-18 04:28:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13092402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnM_ov_doom/pseuds/MnM_ov_doom
Summary: *requested*Modern AU where the religious characters are siblings: Junia is a professor in a religious college, Reynauld is a S.W.A.T. officer and Damian... Damian is trying his best, to great concern of his brother and sister.Dismas, the criminal working with Reynauld, decides all Damian need is a pal to talk to, and he knows just the right person: the buddy of a buddy of a buddy. And nobody needs to know the guy's a mercenary.





	1. In which Dismas plays Tinder

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was contacted by this "santa's elf" person, who requested this story. Whoever you are, I hope you like it (and that I managed to bring Christmas earlier to you). Thanks for requesting. :)  
> Again, exploring the Darkest Dungeon tumblr was very interesting.  
> I did a few alterations to what I found, but I promise it's pretty much the same plot that was left on tumblr.
> 
> And yet again, I'll explore a few things here that I'm going to develop in Pax Vobis.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this story, and please let me know what you think. :)

“Man, I’m starving!” And Dismas made a beeline for the fridge, opened it and began to pick up seemingly random ingredients for the perfect sandwich. His culinary deeds were interrupted, however, as Reynauld gently pushed him away from the fridge, led him out of the kitchen and into the living room:

“Of course you are,” Reynauld agreed patiently, because that morning Dismas had singlehandedly emptied the station’s mini-vending machine. He led Dismas to the couch and made him sit, then tapped his leather-clad shoulder, indicating the biker jacket had to go. “I’ll cook this time. My younger brother is coming over.”

Dismas turned around slightly on the couch while undressing his jacket and handing it to Reynauld. A panicked expression crossed his face, before he hid it discreetly in the red scarf around his neck:

“I’ll meet your family…?” he asked in a small voice. Reynauld smiled gently at him and ruffled his hair, before grabbing the biker jacket and walking away, first to the small entry hall to hang it near his own jacket and then into the kitchen to make lunch:

“It’s just my brother. I don’t think it’s safe for you to meet my older sister just yet,” Came the reply from the kitchen.

Still, Reynauld’s younger brother was a great deal. Dismas turned around on the couch again, to use the large TV on the wall opposite as a mirror, and attempted to comb his hair a little by using his fingers. He knew Reynauld’s siblings meant the world to him – they were the only family he had left, after the divorce and loss of custody of his son. This whole thing between Dismas and Reynauld was fairly new and spooky, all the sudden infatuation that persisted and was rooting deeper day by day, all the hushed and hurried displays of affection. But Dismas wanted it, and Reynauld wasn’t bothering anymore on hiding that he too wanted it. So Dismas had to do this meeting the family right, had to show Reynauld he was reliable, stable, not just a fun ride.

And it shouldn’t be hard to get along with Reynauld’s little brother.

* * *

 

Reynauld’s younger brother, Damian, was a sight to behold: he was a big man, tall and bulky, with strong features. He was quiet, though Dismas was familiar with that type of quietness – a façade of something much more powerful, explosive, unpredictable and possibly extremely stubborn. His suspicions only increased the moment Damian undressed his hooded jacket and one of his sleeves was slightly rolled up, revealing a suspicious amount of scars. Like Reynauld, he also wore a small chain around his neck with a pendant of the symbol of Light.

Sitting at the small round table in the kitchen, Dismas could study Damian while he and his older brother prayed before starting to eat. But the moment the praying was over and Damian opened his eyes again and lifted his head, Dismas casually looked at the salt-shaker and lazily reached out for it:

“So… you’re Reynauld’s little brother!” he stated, and that earned him a shrug from Damian. “How little are you?” And Dismas smiled widely, baring his teeth.

A sigh from Reynauld confirmed his suspicions that it wasn’t funny, and Damian merely shrugged again:

“Ten or so,” he grumbled without looking at Dismas, whose shoulders sagged in disappointment; that wouldn’t impress Reynauld… He tried again, after ostensibly stealing a bit of food from Reynauld’s dish, just to let Damian know he was friends with his older brother and practically family in his best dreams, and therefore could be trusted:

“Sooo… you have a job?”

This time Damian did look at him. Unimpressed, but it was still better than a shrug:

“I run this institution, to aid homeless people…” he told briefly, almost not moving his lips, and exchanged a brief look with Reynauld. “I do most things myself, though,” And it was the longest answer Dismas managed to get from him.

Damian left after lunch. He tapped his older brother good-bye on the shoulder, waved briefly at Dismas, dressed his jacket again, pulled the hood over his head and left.

“That went well, he usually isn’t that talkative!” Reynauld assured Dismas when he was helping with the dishes. Dismas merely cast Reynauld an annoyed look, before turning his attention to the dish he was wiping dry. Reynauld washed another dish and handed it to him to dry:

“Kid’s got some scars…” Dismas commented.

 Reynauld sighed tiredly and looked out the small circular window over the sink. Outside the day was rainy, and honestly he would rather stay at home and watch something on the TV with Dismas than going back to the police station and keep working on the current case – to which Dismas was a crucial piece. He handed Dismas another dish and moved on to wash the cutlery:

“Sometimes he gets a beating from the people he wants to help… But usually he does them himself…” Reynauld told quietly. “It must have started shortly after mom and dad passed away, but… Junia and I… we didn’t notice. And then he began to take the Verses all too literally, and he stresses a lot about his job… He won’t talk about it, though.”

“Life deals harsh lessons…” Dismas mumbled, aware of how hollow his words might sound to Reynauld.

Then it hit him.

A most brilliant plan, and Reynauld would see how much he cared for him, to the point that he was willing to help his little brother.

Leaving the cutlery he was supposed to wipe dry aside, he grabbed Reynauld’s shoulders and shook him softly:

“Let me guess: all he does is working, and he doesn't really have any close friends… right? I know this type, he needs a pal!” Dismas announced victoriously, but Reynauld just cocked an eyebrow:

“I know that…”

“But not anyone! I know just the right guy! He’s a buddy of a buddy of a buddy! I’m sure they’ll get along!”

Reynauld frowned, shaking his head slowly:

“I’m not so sure about that… Dis, my brother is a grown-up, he can help himself, I shouldn’t be picking people for him.”

Too late, Dismas had already grabbed his phone to text someone. By the Light, he was going to find Damian a friend and that would make Reynauld happy.

* * *

 

The bar was quiet. The usual bullies and petty criminals were too busy getting constantly put behind bars to show up and cause the familiar mayhem the patrons were so used to – Dismas was to blame, though nobody knew: between selling out petty nuisances to Reynauld and his fellow policemen and selling out his usual colleagues, Dismas had obviously concluded a quiet bar wouldn’t be that bad.

The person he was looking for was sitting at a lonely table in the corner with a half-empty pint for company. Dismas didn’t know this man very well, they had barely exchanged words once, after a heist that nearly went wrong, hadn’t it been Dismas’ quick thinking. But he knew by his buddy, who was buddies with a buddy of this man, that he was reliable. And that was all Dismas needed. Besides, there were rumours the man could bake decently, and that certainly was a plus.

Dismas pulled a chair from a nearby table and sat across the man, resting his biker helmet on the table between them:

“Tardif, right?” he asked.

The man in question looked up from a small notebook to Dismas. The upper half of his face was covered by a balaclava, rolled up over his nose bridge and exposing a strong chin and thin lips. Dressed in black, he was still wearing a tactical bulletproof vest – he certainly hadn’t been baking.

Tardif nodded, slowly, closed the small notebook, shoved it into a side-pocket of his cargo trousers and crossed his arms in front of his chest:

“I was told you wanted a word,” he grunted.

Dismas grinned; Tardif was the same type of quiet as Damian, and very talkative like him too…

“The deal is…” Dismas leaned back on the chair and crossed his hands behind his head. “My friend has a little brother. Said brother needs a pal, and you’re up for it.”

A muscle twitched on Tardif’s jaw, and when he spoke, his voice was dangerously low:

“You pathetic twit! What do you think I am??”

Dismas raised his eyebrows and tilted his head:

“You owe me, remember? For that heist…” Dismas grinned widely, and he would have dropped dead if only Tardif knew how to kill someone with a glare. “You won’t regret it, I promise! I’m good at reading people, Tardif! How do you think I’ve kept myself alive all these years?” He reached for the breast pocket of his biker jacket and removed his phone from it. Tardif finished his beer in one mighty – angry - gulp and Dismas pushed his phone towards him. “Here’s the guy you’re going to meet.”

And Tardif narrowed his eyes slightly, looking at the man in the picture: the image quality was poor and Dismas had very obviously taken a picture from a picture. But the man in the picture had a broad figure and strong features, and the uninterested, almost bored look of his face was oddly relatable. Tardif supposed the man must practice some kind of demanding sport, and the thought that someone would be willing to play his rougher version of basketball was somewhat cheering.

* * *

 

Damian’s workplace was as gloomy as Damian himself, Dismas thought apprehensively while he waited in the lobby.

Damian’s institution was located in an adjacent street to the downtown, battered by the constant sound of traffic and city life in the outside. Yet inside the building, old and made of dark grey stone, the silence was overwhelming. The little decoration of the walls consisted of religious paintings. The lobby was uninviting, empty with the exception of a black leather couch that looked so cold and uncomfortable that Dismas had decided to wait standing while the receptionist – whose desk was tucked away in a corner, almost unnoticeable – went to fetch Damian.

The receptionist returned little later, bringing Damian along. Damian seemed surprised by seeing Dismas waiting for him, and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his white coat and went to meet him. He stopped in front of Dismas, tilting his head slightly as both greeting and indication to speak up:

“There’s this guy you’re going to meet, after you leave work,” Dismas informed with no ceremony, and that made Damian narrow his eyes, pretty much like Tardif had done. “I think you’ll get along.”

Damian, however, frowned and turned his back at Dismas:

“I don’t even know you!” he argued and began to stride away. Dismas rolled his eyes:

“He needs help!” he lied, but it at least made Damian stop. “Isn’t that what you do? Help people?”

Damian glanced over his shoulder, still frowning, but now Dismas knew he had caught his attention. Damian, on his early thirties, was ten years younger than both Dismas and Reynauld. And Dismas couldn’t help but automatically feel like he was manipulating a particularly stubborn kid into behaving properly:

“I’d show you a picture, but he didn’t let me take one…” Dismas proceeded and Damian turned around to look at him again. “But he’s easy to recognize. He’ll be wearing black and almost certainly tactical clothes. His name’s Tardif.”

* * *

 

Damian got in the small café Dismas had told him to go to and looked around. At that time of the day it was crowded with people who had just left work and were trying to relax a bit with colleagues or meeting with friends or relatives. Damian wasn’t very fond of crowded places and he wasn’t used to the strong and sweet scent of coffee.

In a quiet corner, away from the counter and the main tables, a man dressed in black sat alone. The man was looking at him, studying him, and that had to be the man Dismas had talked about. Sighing, Damian walked up to him, pulled the other empty chair from the table and sat.

Both men stared at each other for an awkward moment, until Tardif crossed both arms over the table and leaned forwards:

“Damian, I suppose?” he grunted, and Damian nodded.

Another moment of silence followed, until Damian mimicked Tardif’s stance:

“Very well, Dismas said you needed help and I’m in position to help. I have this institution where-“

Tardif burst out laughing. He could barely believe he had lost his precious time to meet a religious man: if the Light pendant peeking from the collar of his hoodie didn’t give Damian away, the help-talk would, as it was unmistakable. Dismas sure had to be in very bad company, if now his friends consisted of that kind of people: Tardif realized he should rather pull Dismas to the right path, _that_ would settle the debt…

Damian stopped mid-sentence, cogwheels turning and turning with the effort of thinking. And then… he knew it. Dismas had made a fool of him. This man didn’t need help, it had only been a low excuse from Dismas.

A moment of tense silence followed, until Damian slowly stood up:

“It seems there has been a mistake…” he excused, feeling both embarrassed and extremely angry. Tardif chuckled, stood up as well and produced a small card from a pocket of his cargo trousers. He handed the card to Damian:

“If you ever wish to make Dismas pay for it…” he explained, only to receive a confused look from Damian. “I am… let’s narrow it to «private security»…”

Damian snorted, studying the card before putting it in a pocket of his jeans:

“I need a security guard,” he commented, and it was Tardif’s turn to snort. They both walked to the exit:

“I’m not a religious man,” he said. They went outside and stopped by the door, partially blocking the sidewalk. There weren’t much people passing by, but rush hour – both for cars and sidewalks – would start soon. The air was chilly and the sky was darkening, and Damian pulled the hood of his grey hoodie over his head:

“You don’t need to be, you just need to make sure everything is peaceful and quiet,” Damian replied with a shrug.

Tardif crossed his arms, amused, tilted his head to the side and figured why not? Money was always welcome, and some extra payment for having lost his time at Dismas’ expense would be ironically rewarding:

“Are you hiring me?” he asked with a toothy grin:

“Seems I am.”

That made Tardif laugh again and say, amused:

“The odds seem to be in our favour.”

* * *

 

Pacing back and forth the long, silent and empty hallways, Tardif congratulated himself for having gotten the easiest and most peaceful job ever. This job was exactly what he needed: after missions he liked to lay low for a while, and being a security guard gave him more money than baking – and he practically didn’t have trouble, only the occasional lunatic trying to escape that always had Damian on their tail.

Like this day, when a man in pyjamas broke free from a room Tardif had just past by and attempted to attack him with a plastic fork. Damian came running after the man and tackled him to the floor before he had the chance to reach Tardif, and the enraged fugitive turned his attention and plastic weapon to Damian, waving it at his face and yelling at the top of his lungs. Tardif rudely grabbed the man by the arms and pulled him away from Damian, who yelled at Tardif not to hurt the man in pyjamas. A door at end of the hallway was suddenly open and two nurses in blue coats ran towards Tardif and the distressed man in pyjamas. The blue coats took the yelling man into the room again and Tardif helped Damian to his feet.

Damian, Tardif had learned in the month he had been working there, did everything but his job – managing: Damian brought homeless people in, distributed food and medication, dealt with drug-addicts and pretty much every kind of psycho and only once a week had better prepared staff to help him. Like those two nurses. And somewhere in one of the other rooms should be a psychiatrist, and in the floor below, in a small office, there should be a professional from social security to help the more improved patients to find a job.  Other than that, Damian’s employees consisted of Tardif and the receptionist, who had used to keep an eye on the place whenever Damian had to leave and now could share that with Tardif.

Tardif also suspected Damian should sleep in his office, in the building’s attic, because… Damian was _always_ at the institution: early in the morning when Tardif arrived, throughout the day, and in the evening when Tardif left, Damian would still be in the building. That left Tardif wondering if he had time to work out and maintain that bulky body of his, and if the game of his rougher version of basketball would ever happen.

The enraged man in pyjamas, Tardif knew him. A drug-addict Damian had practically abducted to the institution some days ago, and whose recovery from the addiction promised to be long and difficult. Damian’s rescue operation had resulted on a lot of bruises and a split lip, but he had been extremely happy about having taken someone else from the streets.

Damian smoothed his white coat, grumbled a “Thanks.” at Tardif and got in the room the man in pyjamas had been taken to.

Tardif proceeded his rounds in peace and quiet.

* * *

 

Huffing, Damian sat at his office chair. His desk was littered with bills, social security and church correspondence, but he made no motion to sort out the papers. He simply stared at them, briefly doing maths and increasing a headache that had nagged him the whole day. With a groan, he looked away from the papers to the ceiling and closed his eyes for a moment.

With barely three hours of sleep, a poor breakfast and a lunch he was pretty sure he had skipped, Damian needed a moment of quiet. With a sigh, he checked his wristwatch, only to realize it had stopped the day before and he had forgotten – again – to change the batteries.

He was about to groan when someone knocked at the door and Tardif came in, stripped of his uniform and carrying a duffel bag on his shoulder:

“See you tomorrow, boss!” Tardif nodded, and Damian nodded in reply: if Tardif was leaving, it should be six in the evening. Tardif was a fantastic employee, working like clockwork, and Damian figured it would be easier to measure the time based off Tardif’s routine than trying to look for batteries in his messy office.

Tardif left again and closed the door, and after a moment of silence Damian stood up, stretched, and walked to the back of his office. The attic was a large place that he had divided in three with premade wood walls: the division on the right was a storage room, the middle was the office and the division on the left, the smaller, was a barely functional living space with a bathroom, a kitchenette and a couch. Both storage room and living space could only be accessed through the office, and the doors were always locked.

Damian entered the small living area and locked the door again. Since it was already six in the evening, he had an hour before having to make dinner for everybody. He usually made dinner alone, but sometimes the more improved patients would show up to give him some help. It was gratifying to receive some help in return, though he preferred to do everything by himself so that his patients would have enough time to think about their lives.

The headache persisted, and for the umpteenth time that month Damian was assaulted by the thought that maybe he should hire a professional cooker… But then again, how was he going to pay said cooker if his institution ran on Church and social funds, and only recently had he managed to save enough money to afford a security guard and spare his receptionist some undeserved extra work?

Damian looked at a framed picture on the wall, above the couch. His older siblings, his sister and brother, who had used their influence as successful professor in a religious college and successful officer in a S.W.A.T. unit respectively, had made that institution possible. He could not let them down after what they did for him, and he could not let down all the people he wanted to save.

And he did not want help. All he wanted – needed – was to calm down and be able to reason and operate again. He didn’t even look at the weights near the couch: instead, Damian undressed his white coat and made his way to the bathroom, while slowly rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie. His arms weren’t fully healed yet – in fact, it had been a long time since he had allowed the cuts he inflicted in himself to scar peacefully – and wouldn’t be any time soon.

* * *

 

Tardif sat across Damian’s desk and looked around briefly as his boss tried to find a specific paper among the mess that was his desk. Damian’s office was rather empty, with just his desk buried under papers and a laptop that didn’t see much use, and a large bookshelf full of dossiers and cases of documents. The only decoration was Damian’s framed Sociology diploma and a religious painting depicting the martyrdom of some saint.

Damian grunted victoriously as he found the paper he was looking for and Tardif looked back at him: on his thirties, Damian looked constantly on the verge of falling from exhaustion while at the same time being in a permanent outburst of chaotic energy; he was both a quiet and reserved man and an omnipresent entity doing everything at the same time; his face was a toxic mixture of unnatural piety and wrath, and Tardif caught himself wondering how that man, big and bulky and who certainly was more than met the eye, willingly submitted himself to be mistreated by the people he so desperately wanted to help.

“I’ll need you to stay more four hours, tomorrow,” Damian explained, then added apologetically. “It’s my sister’s birthday… I’m forbidden to miss dinner this year… I’ll pay you, of course.”

Tardif shrugged and nodded:

“Not a problem.”

The next day, however, Damian appeared to have forgotten about the dinner. At least, he was too busy trying to make a former hooker believe in the Light again – watching from the door, Tardif believed burying the woman alive under a pile of religious books wasn’t the best option:

“Boss?” Tardif called, interrupting Damian and perhaps saving the woman from being read a particularly boring passage from the Verses. Damian looked at Tardif, questioning, then widened his eyes in horror and darted off the room.

* * *

 

Damian, not even bothering to change into something more formal than trainers, jeans and hoodie, managed to arrive late at the restaurant. Junia and Reynauld had already finished the appetisers, and Junia frowned at her youngest brother when he pulled the chair between her and Reynauld and sat heavily, pulling the hood off his head:

“I forgot your gift on my desk…” Damian grunted:

“Praise the Light that you didn’t forget completely about the dinner…” Junia replied and handed Damian a menu: she and Reynauld already knew what to order:

“Happy birthday, I almost did…” Damian confessed with a sigh and looked at his options on the menu. “Rey, are you still friends with Dismas?”

Junia looked at her younger brother with a cocked eyebrow, and Reynauld innocently sipped at his glass of water:

“Yes… Why?”

“I’d like to thank him for having introduced Tardif. I hired him to work as security guard, very competent guy.”

“Consider the message delivered,” Reynauld replied and put down his glass. That was… good! Damian had shared with him and Junia over the phone that he had finally gotten a security guard, but he had no idea it had been the ‘pal’ Dismas had plotted about. It would be great if Damian allowed this Tardif guy to further help him, and then manage to hire more people in order to have some time for himself.

They ordered dinner, and Damian hoped it wouldn’t take long. He looked around absently, mildly aware of Junia interrogating Reynauld about his friend Dismas, and why she had never heard of him while Damian had already met him.

“And you, Damian: are you still doing… that?” Junia asked suddenly, though softly.

It was enough to make her little brother square his shoulders and cross his arms in front of his chest:

“You don’t ask Rey if he’s still a kleptomaniac, do you?” he grunted in response, making Reynauld look down at his glass uncomfortably and Junia roll her eyes, summoning patience:

“I ask because I care…” she tried, yet Damian shook his head and resumed to silence for the whole meal.

* * *

 

Since the institution didn’t have a camera system, Tardif took regular rounds. He had served dinner in the kitchen and everything had gone well – maybe the patients weren’t as keen as being rude to him as they were to Damian because they knew Tardif wouldn’t hesitate to hurt them for real. Some of the women had tried to flirt with him, but Tardif was a professional and wasn’t interested in flirting in his workplace. Now, after dinner, everyone had gone back to their rooms and the hallways were dark and silent, with only the haunting sound of Tardif’s booted feet.

When he was sure everything was quiet, Tardif sat on the couch at the lobby, and concluded it didn’t look so uncomfortable as it looked like. He was planning to make a new round in half an hour, when Damian opened the front door and came in, soaked and visibly upset. And a little late, but Tardif had no other appointments now, and he could afford his boss to arrive late:

“I’m sorry, I lost the bus and came on foot… It’s raining a bit…” Damian grunted and peeled the soaked hood off his head. He had skipped dessert to make things faster and could have accepted Reynauld’s offer to give him a ride, but that would imply having to spend more time with Junia, and after that question Damian wasn’t in the mood to be in the company of his older sister anymore. To be in the company of anyone else, actually.

Tardif shrugged, figured it wasn’t worth it to go to the locker-room and change from his uniform to his regular clothes because he would go straight home, and stood up:

“No problem.”

* * *

 

The next time the nurses, psychiatrist and social security professional showed up, Damian went to meet Tardif in one of his rounds and asked him if he would like to go to the café with him, after lunch:

“The least I can do for having returned late is buying you a drink…” Damian excused, with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his white coat. He didn’t drink and a café was the sort of place he would gladly avoid, but Tardif had been a great help: his presence not only dissuaded some of the more aggressive patients, but also gave off a much-appreciated feeling of safety to the receptionist and weekly staff; not to mention he had held the fort without complaining and had arrived to work the next day on time, as usual, and Damian wanted to reward the display of professionalism and generosity.

An employer offering him something else than money was new for Tardif, yet he wasn’t a man to refuse the good things of life.

That was how they ended up in a small and mercifully quiet café across the street, silently minding their drinks and paying each other little attention: Tardif, slowly sipping beer from a pint, and Damian, staring at the cup of tea on his hands. The silence between them was companionable – and rather enjoyable, without the pressure of small talk. They both knew the other was the quiet type as well, and none of them was willing to go out of character.

In the end, however, Tardif finished his beer in one mighty gulp and put down the pint softly, always looking ahead, and he spoke:

“Thanks for the drink. I get it you don’t have much time to leave the institution.”

Damian didn’t look away from his then empty cup of tea and shrugged:

“No… not really,” he agreed. How could he leave those people, especially when he had no one to look after them when he was gone? “But… You’ve been a great help.”

Tardif snorted, staring at his pint like it was the most interesting thing in the world:

“I’m just the security guard…” he stated, because really, it was no big deal. Damian, however, shook his head:

“You’ve been a great help.”

Tardif looked at Damian by the corner of his eye. Tardif was no great help; he was a mercenary and sooner or later would go back to action. Damian would then be short of staff again and Tardif would find another employer who would pay him much more than Damian, but who would never buy him a drink.

Yet for now, Damian was Tardif’s boss. A likeable boss.

* * *

 

Some weeks gone by, and Tardif noticed his omnipresent boss because quite a rare sighting.

One day, when curiosity took the best, Tardif finished his rounds and made his way to the attic, hoping to find Damian. The office’s door was ajar, and Tardif, feeling like he was on a mission, peeked into the office carefully, instinctively reaching out for a weapon he wasn’t carrying and opened the door.

Damian was sleeping at the desk, with his arms spread at an awkward angle and his forehead resting over the keyboard of his laptop.

Tardif was sure he had seen something nobody was supposed to. In his line of work, it meant death. But as a security guard, it would mean nothing as long as he didn’t let anyone know what he had just seen. So, turning around and walking away was just the right thing to do.

Yet, Tardif simply stood there, by the doorway, looking at his boss. Something had been off with Damian, lately – he hadn’t visited his patients that often. And whatever was going on, Tardif was pretty sure Damian was keeping it all to himself. It was none of his business – he was merely the security guard, and if the receptionist, who had been working there longer than Tardif, didn’t show concern for her employer, then that wasn’t up to Tardif.

He turned his back at Damian, and suddenly remembered Dismas, walking up to him because of that unfortunate heist. On how the deal was that Tardif was supposed to get along with Damian. Tardif could argue he had done his part, but he slowly turned around again and walked to Damian.

Damian was fast asleep, snoring softly, and Tardif hesitated for a moment, then called him:

“Boss?” Nothing, and he poked Damian on the shoulder. “Boss.”

Damian grunted something and slowly straightened up on his chair. He blinked slowly, rubbing at his forehead and feeling the keyboard’s keys printed on his skin. He grunted again, only to freeze and look up at Tardif, standing next to him.

Tardif shrugged:

“Just checking if you were still alive…” he excused, which was an outrageous lie because Damian’s snoring, though soft, was rather audible.

Damian kept rubbing his forehead, now in embarrassment. Being found asleep by one of his employees wasn’t in his plans and it only made him look bad.

He did feel bad, though: unpleasant news, lack of sleep, skipped meals and a lot to worry about.

“Are you alright?” Tardif asked quietly, crossing his hands behind his back.

Damian, with very dark circles under his eyes, kept staring at Tardif silently. He considered not even answering, because that was none of Tardif’s business. However, he suddenly remembered Dismas, talking him into going to meet that man that was now his security guard. Damian knew nothing about Dismas, only that he was pretty close to Reynauld… but he couldn’t deny he was thankful he had gone to meet Tardif.

Damian clenched his jaw: he wasn’t one to share his problems, and logically he should share them with his siblings. But he didn’t feel like being lectured by Junia, and Reynauld was so busy with the latest case he was working on… Truth was, he might need help this time, so he better resume what happened, and hopefully Tardif knew an accounting manager who didn’t charge much.

He sighed and cast a brief look at his laptop: the reply to the bad email he had gotten was still open, and the last bit of the text was simply a chaotic repetition of the keys his forehead had pressed:

“It’s just… this institution works on charity, on funds from the Church and from social security…” Damian began to explain, and suddenly he had a big, annoying headache. “Social security is going to cut contributions to less than a half because funds are needed to another, bigger project.”

Tardif nodded, understanding. Time to go back to real business. Yet Damian crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked down, frowning slightly:

“I must find a way to keep paying salaries, bills, rent and medicines…” he grumbled, and that made Tardif snort in amusement. Damian was stubborn, and of course he wouldn’t just accept the fact he couldn’t afford everything for his patients and employees. Tardif had had employers attempting not to pay him, with a very sad outcome for them; yet he just knew his current boss would rather starve himself than firing someone, or pay a salary late, or stop collecting homeless people. Like it pained him greatly, Damian looked up to Tardif. “Do… do you happen to know an accounting manager…?”

Tardif shook his head no, making Damian roll his eyes. Still, Tardif came to stand behind Damian’s office chair and looked at the mess of papers that was Damian’s desk:

“I know no accounting manager, and I’m no accountant… but I know a bit of management…” Tardif commented.

* * *

 

Damian, Tardif learned, knew nothing of management: he run the place as correctly as possible, but when it came to efficiency… The main problem with Damian was that he had too little money to sustain too much people: Damian seemed unable to understand that, while a certain number of patients didn’t leave, he couldn’t afford to take more people in.

Tardif equated the situation as to managing troops and logistics: Tardif was a loner, but in a few occasions, had experimented team work – as a leader, of course, and it all had gone well apart from that almost unfortunate heist. Besides, sometimes cheap was good - store brands and white-label products were perfect for the institution - and instauring a schedule for water and light consumption was a good trick to save a lot of money.

He also learned Damian didn’t have a salary at all, and that he in fact lived in the institution. Tardif wasn’t a man of taking pity on others and help them out of sheer good will, but he had grown to like his boss – mostly because Damian’s excessive piety was the same ruthlessness that drove Tardif… only, twisted into selflessness.

Damian grudgingly followed Tardif’s advice, and in a matter of months he was finally able to save enough money to hire another security guard to make shifts with Tardif, who began to deal more with paperwork at Damian’s office and making less security work.

And because three patients had left, Damian wanted to take in more three people:

“Wait for someone else to go,” Tardif advised, calmly sipping at his beer bottle. “You’re too impatient…”

“And you’re too bossy…” Damian retorted, looking Tardif over his tea cup.

Dismas would be glad to know they had gotten along better than expected. Of course, Dismas didn’t know – Damian had better things to do than telling Reynauld his security guard had pretty much turned into a co-manager, and Tardif didn’t see the point of sharing with anyone that his boss was more of a pal who theoretically was in charge. Fact was that Tardif had decided to stick around as security guard for some more time, and now that he had another colleague to make shifts with, he had more time for part-time baking. Therefore, more money.

They were in Damian’s office, and Damian handed Tardif a sheet cover in messy calculations. Tardif grunted and took the sheet, frowning at it: other thing he had learned about Damian was that he was chaotic, and it surprised him Damian hadn’t gotten in trouble yet:

“I did the maths, I can take more people in,” Damian argued:

“There’s this thing named Excel, you could use it. And if you wait just a little longer…” Tardif handed back the sheet and finished his beer. “… you can hire someone to deal with the tramps.”

“Don’t call them that, they’re people!” Damian put down his tea cup and stored the sheet with calculations in a drawer. His desk was still a mess, but at least he was starting to put the more important papers in the desk’s drawers. “And I’m afraid my laptop’s keyboard isn’t tea-proof…”


	2. In which a shocking finding occurs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your support... and I'm sorry this took so long to update. :'3

Tardif watched with growing exasperation as Damian unceremoniously threw another application letter and CV to the big pile of rejected social assistants:

“Now you’re just being petty…” he complained, because that one social assistant had seemed quite good. Damian looked at him from across the desk, unimpressed:

“I’m not trusting these poor souls to just… someone!” Damian excused, and opened another envelope with another application letter and CV.

Tardif just rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over the table as Damian handed him the application letter to read. In theory, it was Tardif’s day off – Barristan was doing the morning shift, the evening would be responsibility of Shag and the night was up to Boutica. Yet there he was, trying to convince Damian to finally hire someone to replace his omnipresent self and leave him to do the one job he was supposed to: managing. Progress had been made in the span of almost a year, though: besides the other security guards, there was a psychiatrist, two cookers and two receptionists with proper work schedules; Damian’s desk wasn’t a mess anymore and at least once a week Tardif was able to drag him out of the building to play basketball; surveillance cameras had been installed, and Tardif usually monitored everything while sitting across Damian’s desk and occasionally helping him out with paperwork; deals had been made with local restaurants and their spares were donated to the institution, which meant it wasn’t necessary to always buy food.

They switched documents, and Tardif hummed in approval: that girl seemed competent enough.

Much to his dismay, Damian was about to throw her application on the rejected assistant’s pile:

“No,” Tardif grunted and snatched the letter from Damian’s hands. “Everyone already has someone to make shifts with… everyone but you.”

Damian clenched his jaw. He didn’t like when Tardif talked to him like that, but he had to admit the man was right – he had managed to properly hire and run staff thanks to Tardif’s help. And Damian did want someone to help, to give him a bit of free time to go to mass. It had been… years, since he last set foot in a church. He watched, sulking, as Tardif recovered rejected applications from the Pile of Doom, grunting about Damian’s stubbornness, and lied out four of the applications in the space between them:

“These are good and deserve an interview. You can hire two of them,” Tardif sentenced.

Damian rolled his eyes, but trusted Tardif’s capacity to decipher people – he had to admit, it was much better than his own. He had made a habit of having Tardif with him for interviews, and the social assistants would not be an exception.

In a very subtle way, Tardif had somehow crossed the boss/subordinate line. He had been discreet to the point that Damian, a proud loner that preferred peace and quiet to any form of social event, had suddenly found himself sitting on his couch with a tea mug in hand, shoulder-to-shoulder with Tardif and his trusty beer bottle. And the next thing he knew, he was outside, shoving Tardif out of the way for the sake of having possession of a ball. They didn’t talk much and never about personal matters, and maybe that was why Damian felt comfortable enough with Tardif around him.

And eventually, two social assistants were hired – one to work five days a week, the other to work five nights a week. Damian stubbornly claimed for himself the weekend work, and there was nothing Tardif could make about it.

* * *

 

Tardif was watching the screen from the surveillance system when his mobile started to ring. He frowned, looking away from the screen, and pulled the mobile out of one of the pockets of his cargos. An unknown number was calling to his SIM 2.

A job.

He hesitated, but opted for standing up from his chair and walk outside the office, to the small empty hallway between the office door and the staircase going down, and answered the phone. As expected, it was a job, a big one. He had been lying low for so long he had already forgotten the thrill of getting such a call and the excitement of planning the whole operation.

Maybe it was time to go back to action. He could make much more in one day of work than in months of working for Damian.

Tardif looked over his shoulder, into the office. Damian was dividing the bills into categories, just like Tardif had told him to. On the other hand… it would be a shame to quit this job, that wasn’t that bad for a ‘regular’ job.

Putting his to-be employer on hold, Tardif strode back to the office:

“An emergency came up. Do you mind if I take Friday and the weekend off?” he asked casually.

Damian looked up at him and shrugged. Tardif knew the shrugging meant he could do as he pleased, and he nodded a quick thanks before leaving the office again and give a definitive answer to his newest (and temporary) employer.

* * *

 

Tardif had missed being a mercenary, and it had been nice to go back to it for the weekend. But the job had been messy, and he was extremely thankful for playing the role of humble security guard again. Walking into the institution with the duffel bag with his uniform hanging from his shoulder, he almost laughed at the odds of someone he had pissed off coming to look for him in a religious institution to aid homeless people.

After changing in the locker-room, Tardif made his way to the office in the attic, whistling on the way… and growing immediately silent as he saw the office door ajar.

That door was always wide open.

Being a professional, Tardif immediately took cover against the wall and reached for a weapon he didn’t have. Because now he was a humble security guard. Cursing mentally, he slowly approached the door and peeked into the office.

Empty and dark, and he sneaked in, looking around and a thousand catastrophic scenarios running through his mind – all of them included Damian finally getting his ass handed to him by one of the scumbags he so naïvely took in.

The door of the small living area, usually closed, was ajar as well, and there was light inside. Tardif grabbed a paperweight from the desk and, with silent steps, approached the living area. Everything was oddly silent, and if Damian wasn’t there, then Tardif would shut down the institution and make all those miserable people his hostages until they returned his boss.

He pulled the door open and jumped into the small living room, looking everywhere and ready to throw the paperweight at the first thing that dared to move.

But there was only Damian, asleep on the couch, with his hoodie pulled over his chest and a bag of now defrosted peas over his ribcage. He was sleeping so deeply he didn’t hear Tardif snort and stomp his way towards him, and only when Tardif shook him by the shoulder did he wake up.

Damian jolted, widening his eyes in surprise, and took in a pained gasp. He reached for his ribcage immediately, trying to stop the bag of peas from slipping down, and only then looked up to Tardif. Damian blinked his eyes slowly, then frowned and pulled his hoodie down hurriedly:

“You shouldn’t be here,” he grunted and scrambled to his feet. His whole body ached and his ribcage throbbed painfully again. There was a big bruise on his left cheek bone, and he looked to the now useless bag of peas when Tardif frowned at him:

“You weren’t at the office… thought something might have happened. I wasn’t wrong,” Tardif crossed his arms, watching as Damian stood stiffly in the middle of the cramped living room. He knew he shouldn’t be there, they weren’t friends to that point… and yet, they were still friends. Tardif had grown to like the eerily pious, fanatically selfless and quiet man glowering at him, and he shook his head. “I was gone for three days. Three days, Damian!”

Damian’s face softened, recognizing the banter in Tardif’s voice. He walked to the countertop and dropped the pea bag – he might eat them for lunch, now that they had defrosted:

“Wounds…not a setback…beacons for the Light,” he said. “Another soul on the way to salvation.”

“One day you’ll either die horribly or be arrested for abducting people…” Tardif snorted in amusement, then rested his knuckles on his hips. “Your ribcage might be broken; you should go to the hospital.”

As expected, Damian shook his head no, dismissing Tardif’s concerns. Even though his ribcage was an annoying source of pain and breathing was very uncomfortable. Tardif let his arms fall to his side and stepped closer:

“Let me check, then.”

Damian’s expression hardened again and he clenched his jaw. He liked Tardif’s company, but he didn’t want him to pry around – last time someone did it, his whole life went tumbling downhill, and he nearly dragged his family along. He shook his head no again, and it made Tardif narrow his eyes:

“Very well… I’m going to say hello to your newest guest, then!” he threatened. It wasn’t the first time he saw Damian injured after rescuing someone, but he had never seen the man with a potentially dangerous injury:

“I’ll fire you!! And call the police!!” Damian argued angrily, but Tardif just shrugged:

“I’ll get to them first…”

Tardif had a point. Damian chewed his tongue and looked around nervously, before cursing lowly and reluctantly lift his hoodie just enough to show the big bruise he had been trying to placate with the bag of frozen peas.

Unceremoniously, Tardif stepped closer to Damian and began to grope at the bruise:

“Not swollen…” The muscle beneath the bruise didn’t feel like an inflammation was going on, so apparently there wasn’t a fracture:

“Surprising news…” Damian grunted and tried to pull his hoodie down. However, one of Tardif’s hands was already on his back, looking for a swell denouncing something worse than a big bruise.

The only swellings found were scars and fresh scabs, and Tardif immediately pulled his hand away and gave a step back, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. _That_ , he knew he was not supposed to have found, and for a moment expect Damian’s blue eyes to turn into lasers and obliterate him there and then. But Damian just stood there, and though his face was motionless as marble, a thousand emotions stormed through his eyes, each bringing more doom and destruction than the other. That, Tardif thought with a bit of spooked awe, was a man who wouldn’t think twice about turning a nuisance into a bloody pulp, a raw power not at all fitting for such a pious man like Damian.

It was the same power Tardif had sometimes sensed on Damian, but had never thought to be so big.

Yet, Damian just sighed, and suddenly looked simply annoyed, all the menace gone.

Tardif tilted his head apologetically:

“Boss?” he asked, though he didn’t know what he meant, or why. He felt like he should clarify he was just making sure there was nothing broken, but again, he shouldn’t have even taken that task for himself in the first place…

Silence dragged between them, both men standing awkwardly rigid and glancing around for an escape route. There seemed to be none, though, and Tardif grudgingly realized that might be his cue to act like a security guard:

“The new guy did that to you?” he asked softly, hoping to appease Damian, even if his boss didn’t look like he would murder him anymore. In fact, Damian’s posture became that of a child caught stealing from the forbidden cookie jar:

“I… I did it myself,” Damian flinched internally, anticipating the reactions he had had before. But all he got was a grunt, a frown and a polite looking away.

Damian rolled his eyes. At least, Tardif wasn’t screaming bloody murder, wasn’t questioning his sanity – at least, yet. Tardif already knew the story behind the tooth gap and had made no comment other than ‘You’ll get yourself killed one day…’ – and that was still better than the reactions Damian had had from his family.

If he didn’t tell Tardif about the scars, the question would linger in the air between them, and would grow awkward and uncomfortable, and Damian could already see them drifting apart because of that. He didn’t want that. So, he might just tell Tardif straight away and spare them awkwardness for the future… and, who knows, maybe then his apparently gloomy and uncaring security guard would show more consideration by the poor souls Damian was leading to recovery:

“I’m a flagellant,” he blurted, and now that it was out, maybe he should have left it unsaid, maybe they could have dealt with the awkwardness later.

Tardif made an eloquent grunt, then crossed his arms in front of his chest: not like when he made himself bigger and more threatening; simply protecting himself from a possible blow:

“Isn’t that… medieval?” Tardif asked, and with that he meant it probably shouldn’t be done anymore because science and common sense had proved it wrong.

Yet everyone was free to have their kinks… Tardif prided himself for his, but having found about Damian’s wasn’t exactly the most rewarding feeling in the world.

Still the best reaction Damian had ever had, and he allowed himself a grin:

“Through penitence comes salvation.”

Right, it had to do with religion, Tardif thought with a grimace. Seemed Damian was more fanatic than what he had thought:

“Look, whatever you did, I’m pretty sure you redeemed yourself with what you’ve got going on here…”

Tardif startled as Damian burst out laughing. Damian wasn’t a man of laughter, and the best Tardif had gotten from him had been genuine smiles while they played his rough version of basketball. So, hearing the usually quiet and serious man laugh felt like a portent of doom, and Tardif had the very unpleasant feeling of having allowed someone close that he thought he knew, but in fact did not.

“I did nothing! But many people did, and they have no one to save their souls!” Damian opened his arms. “I am up for the task!”

The whole thing felt surrealist and absolutely insane, but in levels Tardif honestly had never expected from someone like Damian. His pious, selfless boss had tricked him well into appearing simply mildly eccentric…

This smelt like trouble, and Tardif did not like trouble. Being a security guard in a religious institution for homeless people? Okay. Having a religious man as boss? Okay. But said boss being that level of delusional to the point of… flagellation? Nope.

On the other hand, the crazed fanatic monologuing about the salvation of souls had become a friend. Tardif wasn’t a man of having friends – his profession had left him too wary and cold, and sometimes too greedy, to allow himself the luxury of friendship. But this thing between him and Damian had worked quite well, and he enjoyed Damian’s silent company while drinking beer, and while staring at the surveillance screen, and at their sporadic basketball games.

So, he slumped his shoulders, retreated to the couch and sat, looking up at Damian patiently:

“But… the institution…” he grunted, trying to make sense of the flagellation business. Damian, still standing, shoved his hands in the pocket of his hoodie and leaned against the kitchen counter:

“It doesn’t help everyone that needs help!”

“And flagellation does?”

“Yes!” Damian grinned widely, and the quiet man was simply unrecognizable. “I shall pay for their sins and save their souls! Through pain, through agony - I drag myself to the Light!”

Tardif raised his hands in a sign of peace. Talking about religion had always left Damian agitated, but this was too much. There was something chaotic coming off Damian, and whatever it was should be locked back in place before something happened. Tardif figured Damian wasn’t even aware of it, just like kids weren’t aware they got overexcited about things that made them happy – like chocolate cakes, but usually their excitement was easy to put down with a glower.

Damian would not calm down if Tardif simply glowered at him:

“How about breakfast?” he asked suddenly, snatching Damian from the religious monologue he kept going on.

* * *

 

Unlike usually, the silence between them was… awkward. Damian sipped at his tea angrily, but what was done, was done. At least, Tardif was being polite about it, immersed in his job of staring at the surveillance screen. Doing far better than Damian, who was supposed to open these bills yet all he had done until the moment had been sipping his tea.

“I… I didn’t mean to sound… alien…” Damian grumbled after a while. The last thing he needed was to be the elephant in the room. Again.

Tardif kept staring at the screen:

“How about it never happening?” he asked quietly. A couple of strong beers would push Damian’s bulk and scars to the back of Tardif’s mind, and perhaps a third would almost completely erase a bit of intimacy that wasn’t meant to be.

Damian snorted, appreciating the gesture, while knowing all too well the subject would not be easily forgotten. Again.

* * *

 

Tardif put into action his plan of drinking three strong beers. And, sitting alone in his large couch, drinking and zapping, it worked.

The next day he had been assigned the morning shift, and he was striding along the hallway in the second floor, where the most problematic patients lived. The doors to the various rooms were all closed, except for one at the end of the corridor that immediately raised suspicion. With a frown, Tardif approached the room and peeked inside.

He expected to find the room empty or its occupant tearing pillows and bedsheets apart. But the former homeless drunk was quiet – bored, in fact – and tucked in bed, while Damian sat at the edge of the bed reading something in a calm voice. Judging by the very bored listener, it had to be a religious text. Tardif grinned and proceeded his way.

But now, the memories of bruised muscle and protruding scars were back, and with them a lot of questions – some stupid and some that made sense, like… why would such a good-hearted man like Damian flagellate?

* * *

 

The silence between them was still awkward, and Damian knew Tardif, despite his politeness and apparently easy fix from the day before, had failed completely at forgetting the subject.

And Tardif knew Damian knew, judging by the slight grimace on Damian’s face as he sorted out paperwork.

“Damian?” Tardif eventually called, softly, but didn’t dare look away from the screen. Damian probably wasn’t looking away from his paperwork, either… “I saw you earlier, reading to that man… I didn’t mean to, but it got me thinking,” Tardif kept looking at the screen, feeling slightly embarrassed. He had promised Damian he would forget it… yet there he was. He considered not going ahead, but curiosity took the best of him. “You’re a good man, why do you do that to yourself?”

The question didn’t sound very clear on Tardif’s ears, but Damian got it perfectly. He sighed, considering to ignore:

“I already told you. For the salvation of souls.”

Tardif grunted:

“But it must hurt… it must be uncomfortable…” It had to, and he just couldn’t understand why Damian had decided to do that to himself: since when the spiritual salvation of others was worth the martyrdom of own’s flesh? Tardif shook his head, slowly, and he was either too selfish or Damian too selfless.

This time, Damian did look up from his paperwork, blue eyes wide in surprise.

He had had his sanity questioned… but his well-being? Something that simple like the amount of discomfort it brought him? He had never been asked that. The fact that Tardif was curious about it felt oddly touching, and Damian was sure Tardif wasn’t planning to mock him or insult him for his interpretation of faith.

Giving an honest answer, however, would bring along another private matter Damian did not want Tardif to know. His previous experience of dealing with the subject had taught him reactions were even worse than when it came to flagellation. On the other hand, it would be nice telling Tardif – and finally wear a t-shirt or tank top to play basketball, instead of melting away inside a hoodie…

Damian decided to see where things would go:

“I’m not very sensitive,” he told, his attention to his original task of dealing with paperwork completely shifted to study Tardif.

Tardif looked away from the screen as well, grimacing:

“You’ve been doing that for a while, then…” he concluded, because repetition over the years could only be the reason Damian had desensitized.

Damian grinned slightly:

“Years, yes…” He nodded in agreement:

“Well… so much for forgetting about it…” Tardif grinned as well, apologetically, but Damian simply shrugged, taking no offense. “Is that why you’re always on hoodies?” It had to be. Hoodies were large and comfortable, and Tardif supposed that, if his back were thorn open, he would like to wear something large so that the fabric wouldn’t rub on the wounds.

Damian’s grin died, slowly. He could lie, agree with Tardif, spare them the trouble of yet more awkwardness.

But friends didn’t lie to each other, did they? Damian hadn’t had friends in a long time, but he idealized friendship as honesty between the parties involved. Slowly, he rolled up a sleeve, just enough to reveal a crisscross of scars on his forearm. Tardif frowned, looking from the bit of exposed arm to Damian’s face:

“You had an accident?” That resulted in nerve damage, perhaps?

Damian almost laughed, but it came out strangled and bitter. He could call it that. Accident. In fact, many accidents with razors, knives, scissors, anything sharp. Occasional accidents, when he was feeling stressed and didn’t know what else to do to calm down and reason again.

Tardif mouthed a silent ‘oh!’, and for a solid minute forgot to politely look away from Damian’s scarred forearm. So, his boss wasn’t only a religious fanatic… he was a masochist. That was eerily interesting, and Tardif immediately pitied Damian for misunderstanding – or punishing – his needs with religious fervor. Looking at the scars, he allowed himself to imagine, just for a few seconds, that he could help Damian.

Damian, his boss. His very religious boss. Tardif immediately looked back to the screen.

Still, better than being shouted at, and forcibly taken to a psychiatrist, and being laughed at. Damian focused on his paperwork again, and silence settled between him and Tardif.

Hours gone by, until Tardif stood from his office chair and stretched:

“So…” he grunted, opened the drawer on his side of the desk and picked up the apple and sandwich he had brought for lunch. He sat on the chair again, stretching his legs forwards, and took a big bite on the apple. He felt like he should stop asking, while at the same time feeling he should ask, because Damian was his friend. “Hm… that counts as flagellation, too?”

Damian snorted and shook his head slowly:

“No… I just… stress…”

Right, so it wasn’t a need, not in the sense Tardif had thought it. Tardif’s interest in the subject dropped considerably, but his concern raised a bit. Stress was a private matter, and he felt like he already knew too much about Damian. Yet again, they were friends, they shared countless silent drinks and rough basketball games. For all it was worth, Tardif felt like he should at least be sure Damian was feeling alright:

“And are you stressing right now?” he asked and took another big bite on the apple.

Damian raised an eyebrow, then smiled and shook his head no. He appreciated Tardif’s concern more than he thought he would, and it felt good to have someone caring for him, instead of caring for what he did. He pushed his office chair away from the desk and, using his legs for impulse, spun the chair absentmindedly:

“Basketball, later?”

Tardif snorted at the big man spinning slowly in the chair and decided to mimic him:

“Sure thing, boss!”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts on this one?


	3. In which Tardif makes an irrecusable offer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember this story? :')
> 
> I finally had both motivation and time to update.

Five a.m. was ridiculously early – and even a tough mercenary like Tardif, used to rough schedules and little sleep, had to admit he would rather be in bed for a little longer. But this would be worth it. With childish curiosity, he watched as Damian looked around once more to be sure they were the only ones in the park, then sighed and quickly pulled out his trademark hoodie.

Tardif didn’t want to stare, he simply wanted to take a quick look and then start the basketball game. But he stared.

Damian had broad shoulders and muscled arms and chest – and being a man of extremes, he wore a tight tank top under the large hoodie. But what stood out the most was the crisscross of scars on his arms: long, narrow, jagged, of an angry pink on pale skin, but not the bulging type of scars on Damian’s back. Tardif had to confess the scarred muscled arms were extremely alluring, and how could he, such a careful man, have gotten himself into this mess?

“I swear I’ll fire you if you keep staring,” Damian growled, startling Tardif a bit.

Right, the basketball game. Put aside the scars and flagellation thing. Making a face, Tardif dribbled the ball past Damian, only to be violently shoved aside and have the ball stolen.

* * *

 

“These could be considered bullying in the workplace…” Tardif grunted, but that only made Damian’s smug grin go wider:

“Go on, call the syndicate!” Damian teased and placed the first-aid kit on the kitchen counter quite loudly, just for show. Tardif rolled his eyes, but said nothing and merely watched as Damian put on latex gloves and poured oxygenated water on Tardif’s elbows. “There’s no evidence linking me to these.”

These, being Tardif’s flayed elbows – the eternal struggle of man versus asphalt. The reason why tripping on a fugitive ball was dangerous. Tardif had wanted to dismiss it and Damian had wanted to not be concerned, but both had failed: Tardif, who had suffered from all kind of injury, from broken bones to bullet wounds, had in fact gotten _uncomfortable_ with the humble flays on his elbows; and Damian had noticed it and had immediately wanted to fix it - since Tardif had insisted on taking a look on Damian’s injured rib cage, days ago, it seemed only fair that Damian would tend to him too. To avoid awkwardness, they had agreed by speechless agreement that banter was the solution.

So, he cleaned and tended to the wounds in Tardif’s elbows, surprising Tardif with unexpected gentleness. And Tardif be damned, because he liked it: the touching, the attention…

Damian’s mobile began to ring, abandoned on the couch, but he ignored it.

Tardif, being a business man, had a severe allergy to ignored phone-calls:

“Might be important,” he grunted, but Damian simply shrugged:

“It’s my sister complaining about Reynauld not spending the Celebration with us and demanding to know if I have successfully changed his mind…” Damian shared. Which Damian hadn’t because a) Reynauld told him he’d spend it with Dismas, since Dismas had no family… and b) Damian forgot about it because the Celebration was still a few months away. Still, it was a very nice gesture from Reynauld. Damian was proud his older brother was such a caritative man:

“And have you?” Tardif asked just because. Damian grinned that pleasure-guilty grin of his, showing his tooth-gap:

“Nope.”

They chuckled, like Damian said something particularly funny.

Then, a bit too soon for Tardif’s liking, his elbows were tended to. Maybe complaining about the ridiculous super-hero themed band-aids Damian put on his elbows would grant him a bit more attention.

Unfortunately, Damian was decided about having his security guard walking around with children’s band-aids. Which wouldn’t do for Tardif, because he was a stubborn man who, once set in an objective, would do everything to accomplish said objective. His current objective was having just a little more of Damian’s attention – a man would grow bored of loneliness and quietude from time to time, no matter how much he enjoyed it:

“I bought a new PlayStation, but haven’t tried it yet. Do you want to tag along?” Tardif asked, pushing himself away from the kitchen counter and pacing around as Damian put the first-aid kit back to place and considered with a thoughtful expression:

“What games do you have?” Damian’s voice had its usual nonchalance, but Tardif knew better:

“I got the recent Mortal Kombat.”

“Hm,” Damian turned to face Tardif, serious, almost bored. Would have fooled anyone, siblings included, but not Tardif. No, Tardif was good at reading people, and he and Damian were quite similar in how they displayed their interest and emotions; besides, Tardif had spent enough time with Damian to be able to read him almost perfectly.

For example, Tardif had long noticed that, when his boss was interested or enthusiastic about something, he squared his shoulders. And Damian had squared his shoulders a little at the invitation, only to completely reveal his full width at the mention of the game.

“But I understand it would be embarrassing to lose a game to your employee…” Tardif shrugged and began to walk out of the small living space, smiling to himself once his back was turned at Damian, his very pious boss… who was extremely competitive. Their little basketball game proved it.

“Chickening out already?”

There, Damian took the bait. Tardif glanced over his shoulder, indifference incarnate:

“Tomorrow, then?”

“I’ll take you some beer, to drown your sorrows…” Damian grinned, a mixture of mockery and defiance not at all fitting for such a good, religious man. Tardif snorted:

“Fine. I’ll pick you up at five.”

* * *

 

Damian was waiting on the sidewalk in front of his institution with a shopping bag full of beer cans and cheese snacks. At precisely five, a black SUV stopped on the road next to him and he got in:

“You’re eager to lose,” he stated, nestling the bag between his legs and fastening the seatbelt. Tardif snorted and drove away, a driving style that would put Reynauld’s aggressive driving to shame.

Tardif seemed to know every little shortcut that would spare them from traffic jams, and after an ungodly amount of snaking through tight and shady streets, they were finally in the outskirts.

Damian couldn’t suppress the bark of laughter when he realized Tardif lived in a neighborhood of retired people with fancy houses and fabulous gardens. He lost it when Tardif turned to park the car on the drive-way of a two-story detached grey house with a low-maintenance garden, right next to a vivid pink three-story detached house with an exuberant garden, where an old lady in an equally bright pink dress was watering the many flowers.

Damian could laugh all he wanted – there was no better warning system than old folks! Tardif always knew when somebody was rounding his place, and it usually didn’t take him longer than a few days to identify the problem and deal with it in the right fashion.

Usually, it was that very useful old lady in pink that noted down the plates of the cars parked suspiciously next to Tardif’s place. And all Tardif had to do to keep his alarm system working was to be nice and polite to his neighbors, pet their dogs and distribute home-made biscuits once in a while.

So, he smiled cordially as he got out of his SUV and waved his hand at the old lady in pink, who waved in return and studied Damian attentively as he too got out and followed Tardif to the front door, still with an amused grin:

“Honestly, I thought you lived alone in a cabin in the woods…” he shared, making Tardif grin as well:

“Well, I live alone. This place is mine and my own,” He unlocked the door and stepped in. Damian followed, finding himself in a large hall leading into the living room. It was a wide space, with little but modern furnishings, and the light grey walls and the couple of French doors made it look bright and large. There were no pictures or paintings in display, and Damian’s suspicions about Tardif being rather obsessive when it came to tidiness and organization were confirmed.

At the end of the living room was a staircase leading upstairs – again, no paintings or pictures on the walls, not even a carpet on the steps, or a flowerpot on the floor.

The only place that looked homely was the kitchen, separated from the living room by a narrow breakfast bar with just one seat. The kitchen was pristine as well, but the number of books and magazines on a shelf, the vertical herbs garden and the suspicious lot of neatly organized appliances on the countertop led Damian to firmly believe Tardif used the kitchen a lot. And that he knew what he was doing, which was remarkable.

Damian followed Tardif to the couch – large for a man to sprawl comfortably, yet a bit too tight for two men to sit together – and placed the beers and snacks on the small coffee table between the couch and the PlayStation:

“Prepare to lose, boss…” Tardif warned with a smug grin. “You can always ask for a revanche later.”

Turned out they both were vicious players – albeit Damian was a bit rusty, and did in fact call for revanche.

That led to another, this time from Tardif.

And another.

And another.

And somehow basketball games and going to Tardif’s place to spend hours playing on the PlayStation once a week became routine. Damian couldn’t remember the last time he had been so socially active and Tardif had to admit having someone to play with was much better than being alone.

One day, Damian was told not to bring cheese snacks, and the reason why became obvious once he and Tardif stepped in the house and Damian saw a large tray of biscuits on the breakfast bar – and though the kitchen was still impeccable, the scent of freshly-made biscuits lingered in the air, giving away that the oven had been recently used. Damian looked at Tardif, slightly dumbfounded, but Tardif just grinned victoriously:

“I know just where you’re weakest!”

“You baked that?” Damian didn’t know whether to laugh or to be serious. He followed Tardif to the breakfast bar and looked down at the biscuits displayed in the tray: round butter biscuits that smelled deliciously. “Tardif, are you serious?”

“Very. I have a website,” There were many ways of making money with the Internet. He grabbed a biscuit and made his way to the couch. “My name doesn’t show in it, payment is made via PayPal and there’s this delivery app where they send a bloke on a bike…”

“Your secret is safe,” Damian assured, still staring in awe at the biscuits. There was only one way to find out if they tasted as good as they smelled, and Damian picked up one and followed Tardif to the couch.

On second thought, the tray was coming along too, and the Light bless Tardif’s baking. Better, now that Damian thought of it… the Light bless _Tardif_ : Damian doubted he would have managed to keep the institution running without Tardif’s aid, and in the end the man had turned out to be an excellent friend.

“You’re a good man,” Damian stated while the game in the PlayStation was loading. Tardif cast him a surprised look, then grinned and shook his head, dismissive – a good man wouldn’t kill/maim/blackmail/rob for money and ignore all the blood in his hands; a good man would have a heavy conscious about his actions… and a good man would have been honest with his only friend.

Instead, Tardif grabbed a handful of biscuits and turned his attention to the game.

* * *

 

Every week, Tardif would want to drive Damian back to the institution – and every week, Damian refused. He liked to walk, even when the days were shorter and colder. With the hood on and his hands stuffed inside the pockets of his jacket, Damian believed himself to be cold-proof.

Walking gave him time to think and to spot people who might need salvation. That day, however, Damian had a very important mission to accomplish that gave him little room to take his time observing his surroundings: he wanted to give Reynauld a few biscuits.

He had solemnly sworn he wouldn’t say Tardif had baked them.

Reynauld lived in an apartment a few blocks away from the institution. It was spacious and until not so long ago, Reynauld had given his best to convince his younger brother to go live with him. Despite it never happening, Damian had a key that he didn’t like to use because the apartment was Reynauld’s, and using the key to get in at any moment had always felt wrong.

Now, the thought of sneaking in, leave some delicious biscuits on the kitchen table and sneak out again sounded like fun – Damian even chuckled as he imagined Reynauld’s surprised face upon discovering biscuits he hadn’t bought and that Junia couldn’t have baked because she never had the time.

It was starting to rain by the time Damian got in the apartment building. He took the lift for the sake of stealth, grinning to himself at what he thought a cool prank. Looking at his wristwatch, he estimated that Reynauld should be leaving the police station by then, and considering the traffic and the rain, it would take him a while to arrive. Enough time for Damian to accomplish his mission.

He left the lift, removing a napkin with a few biscuits from the pocket of his jacket and a bunch of keys from a pocket of his jeans. Even though Damian was pretty sure Reynauld wasn’t home, he was as careful and silent as possible when he opened the door of the apartment and stepped in.

To reach the kitchen, Damian would have to leave the small entry hall and cross the living room. Sneaking in was no longer an option when he tripped on an abandoned biker helmet on the carpet and stumbled forwards with a surprised yelp.

There was an accusatory trail of discarded clothes leading to Reynauld and Dismas, half-naked and peeking in horror from the couch. They had arrived some time before Damian, and thankfully Dismas liked to take things slow.

The three of them stared in mortified silence at each other, until Damian bolted to the kitchen, keeping his eyes on the floor, left the biscuits on the table and darted off to the front door again. As he ran across the living room, he caught Dismas trying his best to put on his sweater while zipping his trousers again, and he was vaguely aware of Reynauld calling out his name.

The next thing Damian knew, however, was that he was running down the stairs and out of the apartment building and into the rain outside.

And, somehow, Damian found himself in his little living space at his institution, with the door locked and his flail in hand.

* * *

 

Tardif understood something wasn’t right the moment he stepped in the office and looked at Damian. He was sitting very straight, but not leaning on the chair.

Like his back was hurt. Tardif knew Damian was a flagellant, but after the accidental discovery, Tardif wasn’t expecting that Damian would let him know when he did it. So, Damian was either adding an extra amount of trust into their friendship… or his back was seriously hurt.

Tardif frowned and went to sit at his side of the desk:

“Hi there, boss,” he greeted. Damian merely hummed, very focused on whatever he was doing at the computer. He was holding the mouse tightly, and Tardif took the chance that the security footage from the night shift was loading to observe Damian attentively.

Damian was too busy looking at the screen to glower at Tardif for staring at him, and that gave Tardif the opportunity to eventually notice that Damian’s arms weren’t resting on the desk: he was holding the mouse with his arm hovering rigidly above the surface of the desk, and his other arm was simply hanging stiffly next to his torso. Like he didn’t want to make contact with the sleeves covering his arms.

Tardif narrowed his eyes. The footage had already loaded and was ready to be watched, but he simply stared at the computer screen without clicking the play button:

“What’s wrong, Damian?” he asked quietly. He lifted his eyes from the screen to see Damian clench his jaw, then shrug dismissively:

“I was just stressed. I’m good, now…” Aiming at being evasive, Damian knew all too well he might have just plainly told Tardif he reopened every single scar on his arms. He felt ashamed and angry, because he considered Tardif a friend and Tardif probably thought little of him for how he was unable to manage the stress. But what else was Damian supposed to do? His own brother was another sinner for him to carry, and though he had dutifully prayed to the Light for forgiveness and had flailed his own back mercilessly, the thought that Reynauld was doomed forever was too much to bear. Plus the weight of having to keep it from Junia, because it wouldn’t be pretty for Reynauld if she ever came to know about what was going on with him.

There was also a rather uncontrollable wrath aimed at Dismas, who had deviated Reynauld from the path of virtue – but Damian was supposed to be a savior of souls, which automatically forbade him of punching Dismas in the face.

Damian had never been good at managing strong emotions…

“You don’t look good,” Tardif stated dryly. Damian had become a friend, but still Tardif didn’t need to know _everything_ – he already knew more than he should. Yet, as a friend, he was supposed to try to help, do his part of the deal, and it was up to Damian to take it or leave it: so, if Damian wanted to talk about it, Tardif would listen. But if he didn’t, then Tardif wouldn’t push him either:

“I’m not good at managing stress,” Damian grunted, finally looking away from his own screen to Tardif. “I’m not good at managing, period.”

So, Damian had indeed cut himself again. His back was certainly hurt as well, but that was a religious nonsense Tardif couldn’t understand and, in all honestly, had no wish to. Now, Damian’s ‘stress management?’ Tardif had seen the extent of the scars, and whatever had pushed Damian into doing it all again must have been serious. How could Tardif help without prying into Damian’s personal life? He could either take his stressed-out boss to a calming walk in the park, or kidnap him to spent the weekend at the shooting range…

… or Tardif could help Damian while helping himself. Which was hilarious, because Damian, as a religious extremist, would never accept it, but also worth a shot because Damian… Damian was quite something, and Tardif had never had anything like it.

Worst case scenario would be losing his job as security guard (and probably this friendship thing as well). Tardif was still an accomplished and highly requested mercenary, and that meant money and all the good stuff money could buy - so the odds seemed to be favourable:

“I could help you,” Tardif’s tone was as disinterested as possible and it achieved the desired effect: Damian looked at him again, frowning:

“How?” He had had his fair share of therapy, he hadn’t liked it and it hadn’t worked. It didn’t mean, however, that Damian didn’t want to solve this problem once and for all before ending up in a hospital again, with Reynauld looking at him sadly and Junia yelling at him for being careless.

* * *

 

Sitting on the couch, Damian thought that Tardif’s solution was more gaming, or maybe watching a movie. But the TV was off, and Tardif left him alone for a moment, returning with a black notebook and a pen. That made Damian wonder if Tardif, besides being a security guard with managing/accounting skills and part-time baker was also a therapist of sorts. The thought was both so ridiculous and impressive that Damian had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing when Tardif sat next to him again.

A moment of expectant silence followed. One of the neighbors’ dogs barked outside, followed by the shrill laughter of elderly ladies. The sight of Tardif, clad in his black tactical clothes and combat boots, with his notebook in hand, in his immaculate living room, in that nice house in a neighborhood of retired people, had Damian wondering what was he doing wrong to end up in such awkward situations.

Being a man who didn’t like to waste time, Tardif decided to go straight to the point:

“What if you could be in pain every time you stress, but without having to deal with the discomfort of wounded flesh, bleeding, and scars?”

Damian was momently unsure whether to feel offended by Tardif’s bluntness, or ashamed of his copying mechanisms. Pain was distracting, and unfortunately addicting. Damian liked the pain for making him forget why he was doing it, he had learned to be thrilled at the feeling of it and to focus only on it. Yet he didn’t like the scars on his arms, nor the discomfort the open cuts caused him. This wasn’t like flagellating: no, that was a sacred duty, that was the salvation of souls through the martyrdom of his flesh. That was something he was proud of. Now this… he wasn’t proud of it. He had tried to seek that distracting pain somewhere else, in sports, but it had never had the intensity he needed to make his mind go blissfully blank, and he hadn’t liked to have others staring at his scars and making comments behind his back.

Damian eventually decided he was merely glad that Tardif’s solution wasn’t about taking the pain away from him:

“How?” he grunted, sitting very straight so that his back wouldn’t touch the couch.

Being a professional mercenary, Tardif had schooled himself to always go straight to the point, keep his cool and think strategically on what was best for him. Having Damian right there, showing much more interest than what Tardif had previously thought, was making him slightly nervous with anticipation. He wasn’t used to feel like that anymore, to have little figments of imagination dancing in the back of his mind and to have his heart pounding stronger than the usual.

Tardif had learned not to take victory for granted until the job was done and paid, and he forced himself to apply the same logic to Damian:

“I could cause you pain,” he stated calmly, and that earned him a frown. “No bleeding. In a controlled environment, with previously agreed terms. No one would know.”

Damian made a strange face, a mixture of bewilderment and dismay. It had nothing to do with the face he did when Tardif accidentally discovered the scars on his back, yet Tardif felt equally doomed:

“As in a BDSM session?” Damian asked in a strangled voice. The voice of someone trying very hard to keep his tone even. Tardif’s turn to be… unpleasantly surprised. “I graduated in Sociology, remember? One of my colleagues wrote her thesis about that…”

“So, you might know sex isn’t always involved,” Tardif replied quickly, before Damian made up his mind to give a negative answer. As a mercenary, Tardif wasn’t used to be persuasive without the aid of a gun pointing at someone’s head or without brute force. Despite being good at managing resources and reading people and successfully bake fluffy cakes… Tardif lacked the sensitivity to be convincing through words. Damian looked like a brute, but Tardif had little hope of beating him in a battle of reasoning.

So, he could only rely on quick blows. Like using seemingly convincing arguments:

“And I know you trust me,” Tardif proceeded, before Damian had a chance to speak. “And you know I’m discreet. No one would find out.”

The Light would, obviously. Still, Damian refrained himself and clenched his jaw, thoughtful. Despite his hurt back and the discomfort of having the fabric of his hoodie touching the raw flesh, he slowly slouched his shoulders and leaned against the couch, looking around.

His mobile rang, but he ignored it. He knew it was Reynauld, and the irony of relieving the stress caused by his brother’s relationship with a man through the aid of another man was so ironic Damian felt like bursting out laughing.

The thought that he might rely on science instead of religion to make the decision was the cherry on top of the cake.

Indeed, his colleague had remarked that the BDSM scene didn’t always mean sex - that, according to the Holy Scriptures, was a sin if between two men ( _like Reynauld and Dismas_ ). Damian groaned and looked around Tardif’s pristine house. Again, the shrill laughter of old women outside, and the barking of dogs. The blinds of the French windows were open, letting in the last rays of sunlight. The world outside was… peaceful, going on like Damian’s problems were irrelevant.

Which, in fact, were. As a flagellant, Damian had signed up to care about everyone but being cared for no one.

Except his stress wasn’t flagellation-related. It was personal. And it all had started when he was young and his parent died and he tried to be brave for Junia and Reynauld and spare them his pain, since they had their own pain to deal with plus all the bureaucracy of the funeral, the will, their studies and jobs. Pursing his lips, Damian looked again to Tardif.

Tardif always said he was a good man… and he did trust Tardif, who was no longer merely the security guard, but a friend. The only person who hadn’t judged Damian for his copying mechanisms… or his interpretation of faith. He sank in the couch, crossing his arms over his chest:

“ _If_ I accept your… help…” Damian grunted. “… where would we-“

“Basement,” Tardif replied promptly. “Whenever you need it.”

Damian didn’t like the word «need», but the offer seemed… innocent enough to not upset the Light? But, if he did… he could always cleanse himself, add his own soul to the burden of souls he carried on his back to save.

“Ok,” Damian finally grunted and shrugged.

Tardif’s senses only felt this sharp when he had his prey in the sight of his rifle, or when there were enemies in the same building as him:

“Ok? As in… ok, let’s do this?” Never, in his whole life, had Tardif felt such a thrill. Still, he made an effort to keep his tone normal and forced his face to remain blank.

Damian merely nodded, unwilling to voice the acceptance of this kind of help. What had he done wrong in his life to end up in the most ridiculously awkward situations? His only consolation was that, perhaps, he would manage not to stress so much only to avoid Tardif’s help.

Tardif beamed, but kept serious. He opened his black notebook, looked for an empty page and wrote down Damian’s name:

“Good, now we just need to discuss the terms,” he stated, and that made Damian groan in annoyance.

* * *

 

At the end of the day, Damian found himself in his little living space, sitting on the couch with a steamy cup of tea in hands. He had undressed his hoodie, and after sipping at his tea he glowered at the several cuts on his arms, blaming them for the mess he had gotten himself into.

His safe-word was «pineapple», he would not remove any piece of clothing, his back was not to be touched and, now that he had seen what Tardif’s basement looked like, he would never look at fancy outskirt neighborhoods as… idyllic, again.

Damian drank his tea in one mighty gulp, only to regret it dearly as he felt the hot liquid burn all the way down to his stomach. He left the mug on the floor, leaned back on the couch and pulled his knees up to his chest, thoughtful.

He felt… wrong. He had felt so for most of his life, and how ironic would that be if Tardif’s help actually made him feel less wrong? He barked out a dry laugh, grinning sadly and shaking his head in disapproval at himself. Though the deal was made, deep down Damian hoped he wouldn’t need it – hoped that the sheer thought of simply having to tell Tardif how he felt would be enough incentive to keep him… not stressed. Yet, at the same time, that same thought of having someone willing to listen everytime he needed to talk didn’t seem so bad. Tardif was a good fried, always ready to help, and Damian liked him for that.

The last thing he needed would be to eventually abuse Tardif’s good will and drive him away…

With a grunt, Damian stood up and walked into the bathroom: what he needed right now was a cold shower.

As for Tardif, he couldn’t be more pleased with his luck. Who knew being a security guard would be this… convenient? Zapping on his comfortable couch with a bottle of cold beer in hand, Tardif licked his lips in satisfaction.

He did like Damian as a friend, for he was good company. A bit messed up, but definitely a good man, the kind of person Tardif had never imagined himself associated with. Yet thanks to their basketball games evenings spent in front of the PlayStation, Tardif also knew there was more to Damian than met the eye, and it both intrigued and fascinated him. The perspective of having control over such a man was thrilling, and Tardif, as a superbly organized man, was plainly convinced he could keep his friendship with Damian and his dark interest in him in two separate compartments.

Now it would be just a matter of time until something triggered Damian for real – Tardif knew Damian well enough to tell he was rather proud for such a pious and religious character, and that Damian would endure as much as possible before finally breaking and grudgingly ask Tardif for help.

It was a game of patience, the kind that Tardif, as a mercenary, thoroughly enjoyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Opinions, anyone?


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